


Trust

by Azzirafell



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Injury, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:28:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzirafell/pseuds/Azzirafell
Summary: Elementary drabble. Holmes is hurt, Watson is hurting and Captain Gregson refuses to give up on his friend.





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This short ficlet was based on this prompt:
> 
> “You don’t trust me at all –”
> 
> “You don’t deserve my trust.”

“You don’t trust me at all –“

“You don’t deserve my trust.”

“Joan,” Sherlock says her name tentatively. He’s aware that he’s treading on delicate ground. He tries to think of an acceptable thing to say to make everything OK.

“I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock.” She stands at the end of the hospital bed. He’s propped up against some pillows. His complexion is pasty white and he’s sporting a less than fetching gunshot wound dressing.

“I realize I took a risk but it was a necessary action. The case came to a rather neat conclusion, don’t you think?”

“Neat?” She sounds weary and he detects a hint of defeat in her voice. “You almost died today.”

“A minor complication. One to be expected in our line of work.”

“When are you going to learn that you don’t have to do everything alone?”

“If I’d waited the killer would have gotten away!” He immediately regrets his outburst. Not because of the sudden bolt of pain that courses through his torso, but because his best friend seems more resigned than he has ever seen her.

“I’m done.” She gathers her coat and handbag and prepares to leave.

“Leaving my bedside so soon?” He asks childishly.

“No, Sherlock. I’m not just done here. I’m leaving The Brownstone.”

“Does our partnership mean nothing to you?” He spits vehemently. “I’d expected better from you, Watson. Over the years we’ve struck a certain balance. It works. Would you really walk away from everything we’ve built together?”

“That’s my point. It’s not that what you did was dangerous, it’s that you did it alone. You left me out. But that’s just you to a T, isn’t it? Always playing the hero.” 

“I was trying to protect you.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress. I don’t need you to shield me from danger. I knew what I signed up for when I started working with you. If I can’t trust you to include me, I can’t be your partner anymore.”

He knows he’s screwed up. He’s pushed her too far this time. He tries to play the only card he has left.

“What about my friend? Can you still be that?”

“I don’t know. I need some space. I’ll have moved out by the time you get out.” 

She pauses in the doorway. Without so much as a glance back she says. “I hope you have a swift recovery.”

And then she’s gone and he’s left with an ache in his chest. It’s not the bullet wound. It’s her; a gaping Joan Watson hole etched in his heart. The hurt he feels is all too familiar. It’s the same kind that led him to the heroine and his near self-destruction. And just like that, he’s itching for a hit, longing for that rush of dopamine so he can forget. It’s an overwhelming threat to his sobriety, but the thought of a drug-induced escape is all too tempting. He’ll do anything to rid his mind of Watson’s disappointment, her hurt, and worst of all, her mistrust.

He reaches for the I.V in his arm and attempts to remove it. He needs to get out of this hospital. He needs…

“Going somewhere?”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, surprised by the sudden presence in the room. He’s caught off guard, which is unusual. 

“Captain,” he says curtly, falls back against the pillows and pretends to look bored.

“How are you holding up?” Captain Gregson eyes him with concern. Sherlock wonders if he looks as rough as he’s feeling.

“I’ve been better. There’s been an unfortunate low amount of morphine in my treatment thus far. Drug addict, you know…”

“Right,” Gregson looks momentarily uncomfortable, then he takes a seat beside Sherlock. He’s carrying a couple of brown folders. “I brought these in for you, figured you’d be bored in here.”

“Cold cases,” Sherlock surmises and takes them from the detective. “Thank you.”

Gregson leans forward, stern but concerned. “What you did today was stupid, you know? When we first found you, I thought you were dead. The amount of blood at the scene-don’t you ever do something that dumb again. “

“Afraid you’ll lose one of your best assets?”

“Afraid I’ll lose a good friend of mine, actually.”

“I thought we weren’t friends. You stated quite clearly that you couldn’t give a damn whether I stayed or left the NYPD.”

“Things change, people change. I care about you, you idiot. Even if you are a pain in my ass.”

“Our relationship has evolved over the years, I concede.”

“There are a lot of people out there who give a damn about you. When you got shot you weren’t the only one hurt.”

Sherlock flinches involuntarily. The ramifications of what he’s done begin to dawn on him.

“Watson has made that perfectly clear. She’s leaving the Brownstone; she wants nothing more to do with me.”

“Want me to talk to her around?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “That won’t help. It’ll take years to build the same level of trust we once had. Any attempts to repair our partnership will have to come from me.”

“Is that where you were headed? The Brownstone?”

No. He’d been heading for somewhere far less homely. A backstreet. A heroine den. The doorstep of an old dealer. Anywhere he could get a guaranteed hit.

His silence is all too telling. Gregson is one of the best detectives in the NYPD. He sees through everything Sherlock isn’t saying. Then he does the unthinkable; he hugs Sherlock. Warmth radiates from The Captain as his arms gently and firmly wrap around him. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have protested but he’s tired, emotionally spent and finds himself sinking into the embrace.

“You’ll get through this.”

That’s it. Sherlock breaks. It starts out as a tiny tremor, then he’s shaking and crying into the shoulder of one of the men he most respects in the world. Usually, he’d feel embarrassed, but that emotion is pale in comparison to the hopelessness he feels. Gregson curses in surprise but continues to hold him as waves of misery take hold of all of Sherlock’s sensibilities. The usually rational consulting detective transforms right in front of his eyes.

“I can’t,” Sherlock attempts to form a coherent sentence. He struggles to string his words together. “My battle for sobriety is constant, addiction is something that festers in me,” he snarls around the word addiction. It pains him. “It is the one certainty I have, the one companion that will never leave me.”

“You’ve beat it before; you’ll beat it again.”

“And if I don’t?” Sherlock pushes away from Gregson, in an attempt to regain some composure. “What if I fall off the wagon for good this time?”

“I won’t let you.” He sounds fierce, determined.

“You have too much faith in me, Captain. I let people down, that’s what I do, it’s what I’ve always done. You shouldn’t believe in miracles. This isn’t a fairy tale, they don’t exist.”

“I don’t believe in miracles. I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He gives in to Gregson’s repulsive positivity. “What then, pray tell me, do you suggest we do?”

Gregson leans across and opens one of the cold case files that is resting on Sherlock’s lap.

“We’ll do what we always do. We’ll solve some cases, stick it to the bad guys, serve up a cold piece of justice pie.”

Sherlock glances at the information in the file and ignores the urge to rebuke The Captain for his food-based pun. “A quadruple homicide? This is quite the treat you’ve brought me.”

It doesn’t make it OK, not even close. It merely dampens his need for a score. But it feels normal, his own version of normal any way, and he’s grateful for the distraction. He allows Gregson to talk to him about the case. The smooth New York accent washes over him and soothes him. He begins to drift in and out of consciousness. His injury and the day’s events are catching up with him. Sleep is usually a bothersome hindrance, something he sees himself above, but there’s no escaping his body’s need for recovery. The Captain’s voice continues even after his eyes close and his body becomes heavy with fatigue. The words make no sense to him anymore but he finds strange comfort in them. 

He has at least one friend in the world who hasn’t given up on him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this short story. I've recently gotten into Elementary and felt the urge to write about these wonderful characters. Any kudos and comments are much appreciated! 
> 
> Also, a huge thanks goes to TearStainedAshes. Her recent creativity has been hugely inspiring.


End file.
